


How I Met My Mother

by mother_finch



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: F/F, Gen, mother-finch fiction
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-08
Updated: 2015-06-08
Packaged: 2018-04-03 10:15:34
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,094
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4097173
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mother_finch/pseuds/mother_finch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>PROMPT: Shoot prompt- Shaw's mother is in the city and decides to pay a visit to her daughter that she hasn't seen in years. When she arrives at Sameen's place, she is greeted not only by Sameen, but a tall brunette and a twelve year old kid (and a dog). Shaw's mother is stunned when they are introduced as Sameen's wife and their kinda-sorta daughter that is staying with them for the summer. Shaw has a lot of explaining to do.</p>
            </blockquote>





	How I Met My Mother

She walks down the busy street, car headlights blinding and illuminated signs throwing colors of red, blue, yellow, and green across her face. Her heels click against the sidewalk, and she pulls her jacket up higher on her shoulders, the rising moon bringing coldness with it. All around, people push and shove their way through, and she finds herself being tossed to and fro like a small boat in a large sea.

The noise is extraordinary. It’s as if someone took a radio and turned on each station, then dialed the volume all the way up. Voices ring from every angle, music pools in her ears as it spills out of stores, and the mechanical roars of motor vehicles shout into the night. She looks to the sky for some relief, but finds not a single star, the city’s lights washing them out of a dark blue picture. Even the moon is concealed behind a heavy layer of white fuzz.

She looks left to right and- seeing a small Mr. Wright’s tucked into the walls just before her- hurries across lanes of pedestrian traffic. Although she tries to be fluid, she cannot help but run into the fast paced people as they dart by. Stepping into the store, the calmness soothes her overwhelmed head, the smells of the city far behind and their loud din nothing more than background static. She picks her way curiously down the aisles, scanning the rows of colorful bottles, glass gleaming and liquid contents shimmering within. She grabs a Barefoot Moscato, then heads to the cash register. The only sound is that of her heels and the light trill of a radio from somewhere further back. Upon stopping at the counter, a man of about forty steps out from the back room, handlebar mustache taking over his thin face, and he gives her a large smile. Taking the bottle, he rings it up, then gives a little ‘hmf’ in musing.

“Any special occasion?” He asks, handing it back to her in a paper bag. She gives a small shrug.

“Dinner.” And that’s all she knew. The who’s, the what’s, and the why’s were still a mystery to her. All she’d gotten was this:

Calendar: Dinner @19:30; 104B, Bucanan Apartments, E 48th Street and 3rd Ave.

* * *

 

_How long ago did I make those plans?_ She’d wondered, not recognizing the address, nor the apartment building. However, seeing as it is seven o'clock now, she knows there is no way to decline, especially not knowing who the date is set with anyway.  _How convenient to be in the city, though_ , she says to herself amiably, heading out of the store and back to the chaos outside. She was hoping that it was someone she knew well, that she hadn’t seen in a while, and wouldn’t mind her tardiness- which she knew was inevitable.  _But no one can stay mad with wine,_  she thinks in good-humor.

And, as she travels down roads that take her farther from the hoard of people and closer to apartment complexes, she feels alleviation in having something in hand to show up with at the door.

At long last, with the ache in her feet finally reaching her knees, she stops before an average, red-bricked apartment building with a small pastry shoppe on its flank. Her heart gives a stutter and butterflies run through her blood as she steps up to the door. The mystery in it all is intoxicating.  _Although,_ she thinks as to reduce the anticipation, _as soon as I get to the door I’ll know it was never a mystery._

However, as she snakes through the lobby cluttered with chairs and tables, rides up the elevator that smells of lysol and old carpet, and heads down a hallway of varying shades of red, nothing rings a bell. Her brow knits as she searches for any remembrance of this place, this hallway, this door. It’s painted a light white, with the address stamped into a bronze plaque, and she can hear voices from within. Pots clinking. A child’s laugh. Clearing her throat, and clearing her head, she shakes the nerves from her fingers and knocks. A few seconds go by of nothing, and then she knocks again, this time with the loudness of determination.

There is the sound of nails on hardwood, and a dog’s sharp bark a moment later. The thumping of footsteps.  _Or is it just my heart?_

After a moment, the barking ceases, and there is a click of a door unlocking. It opens in, white wood flashing away to reveal…

She sees a woman of a little over five and a quarter feet, torso turned back towards the inside of the house and dark ponytail cascading over one shoulder. She’s wearing a black tank top, black jeans and dark socks, all the while she holds the doorknob with one hand and the dog’s collar with the other.

“Don’t worry, Root!” She shouts back into the house, what seemed like a quiet space utterly misleading. Her head begins to swivel back towards the door. “I’ve got-”

The woman stops, eyes widening a fraction and pupils dilating the slightest bit. But she knows, she knows as she stands there with the wine in the bag that the woman across from her is truly surprised. She can read it, just like she’d read it years ago.

“عزیز!?” The word rushes from her mouth before she can think of anything else to say. The woman holding the door’s mouth loosens a fraction.

“ _Mom_?”

__________\ If Your Number’s Up /_________

 _I wonder what’s taking her so long_ , Root thinks as she stands at the kitchen counter. They’d been in the middle of getting dinner together when an unexpected knock reached her ears. She had one hand stirring a pot, the other flipping pages in a cookbook that looked like it was written the same year as the Bible, all the while the stove timer was less then ten seconds from ringing.

“Sam,” Root had called out, “can you-”

“Don’t worry, Root!” She heard Shaw’s voice respond from down the adjacent hall, “I’ve got-”

The timer sounded, and Root bent over to pull it open. She’d managed a chicken that wasn’t as black as tar- a good sign- and mashed potatoes that hadn’t come out smelling like hydrogen sulfide- another good sign.

 _But where is she?_  Root thinks, placing her oven mitts down on the kitchen counter. There is the sound of glass shattering from the doorway, and Root instantly feels her heart slam into her ribcage. She feels for one of her guns, knowing she hadn’t yet put it away for the night, and streaks past the kitchen table.

“What’s going on?” Gen asks, startled enough to make the plates in her hands rattle.

“Stay here,” Root answers, whipping herself around the dividing wall. Her gun is aimed straight ahead, eyes set in concentration, all the while she looks for anything out of sorts. Shaw stands with a hand on the dog and a hand on the door, body still as a statue.

As Root walks closer with cautious steps, she sees a woman almost Shaw’s height standing opposite the door. Her dark hair is pulled into a bun on the top of her head, smooth skin only giving away her age with the few creases on her forehead, large mahogany eyes wide in surprise. Her hands are in a circle, as if she’d been holding something only a moment before, and as Root’s eyes trail down, she sees a soggy brown bag leaking clear liquid onto the hall’s carpet.

The woman’s gaze flickers to Root and back, then she does a double take, hands raising to her face as she shrieks.

Shaw turns on her heel, sees Root, and relaxes. Root, seeing Shaw unharmed, stows the weapon back into the waistline of her pants, stepping forward until she is just behind Shaw. The woman peaks through her fingers after a moment; and seeing the gun no where in sight, lowers her hands to her heart.

“Who is this?” The woman asks Shaw, obviously rattled, and Root can hear the hint of an accent- one she can’t quite place. Silently, looking across the way, Root has that very same question.

“What happened?” The smaller voice of Gen echoes on the walls, and a moment later she is at Root’s side, looking the newcomer over. Then, she does the same thing to Sameen. “She kinda looks like you, Shaw.”

A split second smile barely makes it to her lips. But then, a cloud of rain falls overcast on Shaw’s features, and her eyes harden with suspicion.

“How did you find this place?” Shaw asks her.

“I got a- a calendar alert saying I was expected here. I had no idea…” Her voice trails off, leaving Root in a further state of confusion. She gives Shaw the slightest nudge in the side, and Shaw looks up at her, something different in her eyes. It’s a sort of excitement one tries to mask, but it still has those lingering traces surrounding the rims. Shaw presses her lips together a moment, then opens them, pauses, and looks back to the woman.

“Root,” she says, voice a smile although her face reveals nothing. “Meet, my mother.”

Root coughs in utter shock, eyes expanding rapidly as all the air she has escapes her lungs. _Mother?!_ Her mind shrieks, and she probably would have said it too, if her lips weren’t frozen. She swallows hard, trying to find anything intelligent to say.

“Hi, uh, it’s- yeah, ehm- hello,” Root sticks out a hand, dopey grin spreading from ear to ear across her face, and Shaw’s mother shakes it warmly. “I’m Root,” she says, and the woman gives her a kind smile.

“Mrs. Shaw will do,” Shaw’s mother replies; Root looks back to Shaw, and they exchange a dozen words in a single glance. For a while, the four stand where they are, transfixed by what they would’ve assumed only a moment ago an apparition, finding it very real. Finally, Mrs. Shaw clears her throat. “May I..?”

At once, Shaw steps back, widening the door, and Root and Gen make room. With a gracious nod of the head, Mrs. Shaw steps over the bag. “I will uh… I will get that,” she assures them with a disapproving slant of the lip, eyes narrowing in thought.

“No, it’s fine.” Shaw speaks as if this is someone she sees everyday, a feat that leaves Root stunned. “I’ll clean it up.” Mrs. Shaw looks her daughter over, inspecting every element of her face, analyzing what has changed and what has stayed the same. She makes a half-motion forward, stops, then turns away, heading deeper into their home. Gen hops along after, mind bouncing about with questions to ask, and Root leans against the wall to evaluate Shaw under a stern eye.

“ _What_?” Shaw asks, bending down to pick up the soggy package. She brings it in quickly, tossing it to the waist bin at the door. When Root doesn’t respond, Shaw looks over at her.

“How are you not, I don’t know,  _excited_?” Root asks, words coming out more anxious than anticipated. After a moment of silence, Shaw gives a shrug.

“She’s just a person.”

“That you haven’t seen in  _years_ ,” Root points out.

“Haven’t seen a lot of people in  _years_ ,” Shaw counters simply. “That doesn’t mean I’m gonna start giving a damn.” Root rolls her eyes good-naturedly, and they walk towards the kitchen. Shaw can already hear Gen’s voice carrying throughout the apartment, certain she’s in interrogation mode. However, instead of charging in there and keeping her from it, Shaw is barely paying enough attention to hear a word.  _She called me عزیز_ , Shaw thinks yet again. It’s one of the only thoughts that had crossed her mind since. It was something she’d called Shaw, who hadn’t heard it since she was little. It felt familiar; it felt like many good memories and some bad ones as well, but that one pet name was something that she hadn’t realized she’d missed until now.

“Where have you been living? Do you live around here? Where do you go on the holidays? You should come here, but only on the summer holidays, because I’m only here in the summer.”

“Where are you otherwise?” Mrs. Shaw asks with confused eyes. “Surely you come here at night?”

Gen shakes her head, curls bouncing about energetically.

“I did not know they started keeping children  _at_  the schools,” she says, and Shaw finally comes to.

“They don’t,” she informs her mother, who turns in the kitchen chair to see her. “She’s not our kid. Well, not  _really_ ,” she says, lopsided half-smile directed at Gen.

“ _Our_  kid?” Mrs. Shaw asks, voice sounding impressed as her eyes seem to see Root clearly for the first time. “This is your girlfriend then?” Root takes in the way her r’s click, and how there is a ‘duh’ and ‘dee’ for each of her t’s, and finds her all the more intriguing to listen to.

“Wife,” Shaw corrects, and her mother’s eyes widen before she bows her head, pointer finger and thumb pinching at the bridge of her nose. After a moment, she waves a hand before her face, as if that will push all the thoughts away.

“I’ve missed too much,” she says at last, then sighs. Root gives her a sympathetic look, but Shaw just stands indifferent, watching her mother as if she’s something from a museum come to life.

“Well, you’re free to stay for dinner and catch up, if you’d like,” Root offers. Mrs. Shaw’s eyes melt at the phrase, and her body relaxes with gratitude.

“I would like that very,  _very_  much.”

_________\ We’ll Find You /_________

Dinner was drawing to a close, everyone sitting around with much to say. Except Shaw, who seemed more interested in keeping a diversion- mainly eating- than to ask any questions. However, Mrs. Shaw was persistent, the maternal side of her easily switching back on as she chattered about her daughter, and nagged for more recent information. Root watched the two of them, head always darting diagonal to her and beside her, comparing and contrasting the two. She could see where Shaw got many things from. Although she never smiled as much, and usually never as wide, the way Shaw’s mother’s smile began was identical to Shaw’s. The rolling of the eyes, and the shake of the head when something is undesirable; and the easiest to point out: Their stubbornness. As Shaw took long, laborious hours to coax, Mrs. Shaw was unmovable by any stretch of time or any amount of force. Root couldn’t help but smile through the dinner, watching both of them, watching their nearly equally brilliant minds at work.

“So tell me again, who this girl is  _to_  you?” Shaw’s mother asks, mind seeming to be overwhelmed with all that she’s heard. Her daughter, married to woman named Root, with a part-time dog called Bear, and a part-time child known as Gen. As simple as the words seem, strung together they make a thought much more complex.

Shaw, across from her, swallows the food in her mouth before starting. “Just a kid I know from working,” Shaw answers, and her mom cocks her head to the side.

“And her mother is just okay with her spending the summer  _here_?” Gen shakes her head from beside the woman.

“Mm-mm,” she tells Mrs. Shaw. “But it’s okay though, she thinks I’m at summer camp.” Upon hearing the words, Shaw’s mother brings an eye on Shaw only a mother can master. Even Shaw, stoic at best, can feel the heat of the gaze driving home.

“So you’ve  _kidnapped_  her?”

“ _No_ ,” Shaw spits back with a hint of annoyance. “It’s not kidnapping if she comes  _willingly_.” Shaw’s mom clucks her teeth. “Think of it like us sheltering a runaway for a month or two,” Shaw says simply, then continues to eat. Shaking her head, Mrs. Shaw turns to face Root with intent eyes.

“And what is it you do?”

“I work a bunch of odd jobs,” she replies with a smile, leaning in slightly. “Nanny here, computer tech. there.”

“Simple as that, is it?” Shaw jokes quietly between them, and Root gives her a warning glare.

“How about you, Sameen?” Mrs. Shaw asks, her pronunciation of the name making it sound all the more beautiful. “The last time I heard from you, you were leaving the Marines.” Shaw licks her bottom lip, eyes even to her mother’s.

“I work in the cosmetics and accessories division of a local store,” she says, earning a 'tut’ from her mom.

“With a mind like  _yours_?” She asks, not satisfied with Shaw’s answer. “You could  _easily_  be a physician.” There is a strained silence on Shaw’s end of the table, and Root slides a hand onto her knee out of sight, her equivalent of  _Remain calm._  Shaw lets out all the bottled up pressure in a sigh, feeling almost deflated.

“I like what I do,” Shaw tells her, looking at Root while answering the question. Root gives her a modest smile in return, knowing that- at least between the two of them- Shaw isn’t talking about the mall.

“Well, as long as you are happy, I suppose,” her mother replies at last. She thinks things over a moment, sorting out what she does know from what she doesn’t before continuing. “And where do you go while they are at work?” She asks Gen, who beams at getting the chance to talk.

“I take Bear back to Harold and spend the day with him.”

“ _Oh_?” Mrs. Shaw asks, nodding her head. “Is Harold a friend of yours?”

“No- well, yes- but he’s actually their friend,” Gen says, tilting her head forward towards Root and Shaw. “He’s awesome with computers, and he’s always working on this super cool artificial-”

“Leg,” Root bursts out, receiving confused looks throughout. Root sneaks a side glance at Shaw begging for help. Shaw’s now humored disposition let’s her know she’s alone on this one. “His uh, artificial  _leg_ ,” Root starts off once again. “He’s always tweaking it, isn’t  _that_  right?” Root’s glare is serious and direct with Gen, who gets the hint easily.

“That’s right,” Gen tells Mrs. Shaw earnestly who- after another second debating- decides to take their word for it.

“It’s incredible the things you can do with the machines these days,” her mother muses, and Root gives a melodic laugh.

“You have  _no_  idea.”

**Author's Note:**

> ‘عزیز’ means ‘Dear’ for anyone wondering.


End file.
